


no need to fight

by myeyesarenotblue



Series: Through the Ages [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Light Angst, no beta we die like ben
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myeyesarenotblue/pseuds/myeyesarenotblue
Summary: “It’s settled then!” the Handler chirps, happily, “You’re both coming with me!”And she hurls herself at them both, Six and Seven, and suddenly they’re gone.Blue light engulfs them.
Series: Through the Ages [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1868575
Comments: 50
Kudos: 253





	no need to fight

**Author's Note:**

> guys, this has SPOILERS FOR SEASON 2
> 
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .
> 
> That said, idk where this came from, but they showed us the Handler collecting children and like 😩 😩 😩 do you know where my mind went??? do you???

Seven wonders, sometimes, if Dad doesn’t like her very much.

He’s always been a little cold and even uncaring, but that’s just fine by her. They had their nannies. They have Grace now. It doesn’t really matter if Dad never hugs them or kisses them goodnight, and even if it was a little upsetting at first, Pogo explained to them that different people express love in different ways.

She hasn’t figured out what Dad’s way of expressing love is just yet, but she’s sure she will one of these days. No problem. 

_The thing is-_

Even if he does love her, in his own way, Seven still wonders if he _likes_ her.

He likes One, she knows for a fact. And Three. Sometimes Two, or Five, or even Six, but _the thing is_ that they’re _good_ with their powers in ways she just isn’t.

Training is long and tedious and no matter how hard she tries she just can’t ever make her stupid powers do the things Dad wants them to. It’s frustrating, and it’s annoying, but she’s trying her _hardest,_ and Dad-

Dad doesn’t understand.

He walks up to her one day, after training, and he grabs her hand.

Pogo is there, too, and Grace.

“Come along now, Number Seven,” he says, tugging her away from her toys.

And so she goes.

She’s ill, Dad says. Very ill.

She needs to quarantine until the illness passes.

For some reason, and even though she shouldn’t, Seven doubts he’s telling the truth.

*

She doesn’t know how long quarantine is supposed to last, but she’s sure it’s been too long already. It’s been days, and days, and days, and she’s stuck in a little room with a single window, too empty, too quiet.

She has a thought, sometime after the fourth or fifth day, wondering if it’s a punishment for not advancing as quickly as her siblings do, in her training, but then she remembers Four is almost as bad at her and _he’s_ not stuck walking around in circles in a little box.

It’s just dumb.

One of those things Dad does that make no sense whatsoever.

She wants her room, and her bed, and her siblings, and she wants that one stuffed animal Grace got her a couple months ago. She just-

She wants out.

*

Dad does not let her out.

She brings her medicine, one day, forces her to swallow three gigantic pills that make her gag and splutter, nearly puke and cough them up.

Then he asks her to smash up a glass with her powers, and she almost _doesn’t_ because he gets so _mad_ when she gets carried away and breaks stuff and she wants to be _good_ , wants to be let out of her prison as soon as possible-

But he insists.

She makes the glass explode, jagged pieces flying at full force.

And she wonders if Dad will let her out now, now that she did what he asked, but-

He curses.

Says an ugly word Grace’s always telling them not to repeat, and then he’s scribbling something on his journal. Pogo looks sad, conflicted, almost.

Then they leave.

Dad promises he’ll bring more medicine soon.

*

Soon doesn’t come soon enough.

Or- _doesn’t_ come, at all.

Seven is asleep, one day. She’s kind of lost count of how long she’s been in the basement but it’s all the same to her. It’s been too long. That’s all she knows.

Seven is asleep one day, and a noise wakes her up.

Which is-

_Strange_ , because no noise ever reaches her little box unless someone’s at the door.

She sits up, lifting her head up from the lumpy pillow in the lumpy cot Pogo begged Dad to get her, groggy and half asleep, and-

Sure enough, there’s someone at the door.

It’s-

It’s not Dad.

It’s not Pogo.

It’s not Grace.

It’s-

A woman.

A funny one, at that.

She messes with the door, opens it very, _very_ slowly.

“Oh,” she breathes, a pleased smirk on her lips. “Aren’t you just an _adorable_ little thing?”

Seven doesn’t reply.

With the door open she can see her clearly, head to toe, and she can see she’s wearing a big dress, and high heels, and red lipstick, exactly like the kind of clothes Grace wears, except, _except_ they’re _nothing_ like the kind of clothes Grace wears, and she-

She’s not sure she likes her. Something in her gut screams at her to run.

“Cat got your tongue, huh?” the woman drawls, and Seven can see she’s holding onto a big, bulky briefcase.

Seven sits up straighter, tilts her head. “Who are you?”

The woman smiles.

Her teeth are very white.

There’s the sound of footsteps and then a man is coming to stand beside her, younger. He’s wearing a suit. Not like Dad’s suits. A plain one, boring, bland, and his face looks plain, and boring, and bland, too, and for no good reason Seven thinks oh, _oh_ , she’s the important one. It doesn’t matter if the man gets hurt or dies or worse, because she’s the important one.

The man is a nobody. A body guard, perhaps.

“Coast is clear, ma’am,” he says, sure.

“Wonderful!” the woman chirps, and then she turns back to Seven. “Isn’t that wonderful, honey? No one’s going to bother us!”

Seven looks at her.

“Who are you?”

A smile, too wide. “I’m someone who understands you, who wants what’s best for you. Not like that boring ‘ol Dad of yours.”

But that-

That’s the same as saying nothing, isn’t?

Seven still has no idea who these people are, why they’re in her home, in her box. Dad surely has no idea they’re here.

She feels like she should try and let him know.

The woman steps forward, the click of her heels oddly comforting, familiar, awfully similar to Grace’s. Seven doesn’t take her eyes off her, not even when she’s kneeling by her cot, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “Your Dad’s not a good person, sweetheart,” she says, voice soft, voice cold, “He wants to use you, did you know that? You know he only wants you because of what you can do, and- have you ever wondered what’s going to happen if you’re not good enough? If you can never be as good as your brothers and your sister?”

Seven-

Seven has, indeed, wondered.

But Pogo’s always telling her it’s not like that, Dad loves her.

She shakes her head, looks away, mumbles exactly that, her mantra, “Dad loves me.”

The woman coos, almost mocking. Then she turns towards the man, “Did you hear that? She thinks her Dad loves her!”

The man grunts in response.

Seven recoils, glares with all of her might. “Dad loves me!” she repeats.

The woman watches her, for a second or two, smiling softly. “Does he, now?” she says, with an air of superiority. “Then why’s he got you in a cage, sweetheart?”

And-

Yeah, yeah, Seven knows what it looks like. But- “I’m sick,” she says. “I’m here so my siblings won’t get sick, too.”

“You’re not sick.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

Seven sits back and stares, angry all of the sudden. Because- it’s one thing if _she_ has her doubts, if _she’s_ mad at Dad and questions him, misbehaves, disobeys, it’s one thing if it’s _her_ that fears her little box has a reason for being and that reason has got nothing to do with a mysterious illness with no symptoms, but-

But she doesn’t like it, one bit, that there’s a stranger, here, and that stranger fears the exact same things that she does.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but your Dad- he doesn’t _care_ about you,” the woman says, as if it’s nothing, as if her words didn’t feel like a slap. “He’s a liar,” she announces. “A liar, and _pig_ , and if it were up to him then every child in this world would be dead. He doesn’t care about you.”

Seven looks down at her lap, doesn’t reply.

“But I do care,” the woman says. “I care so, _so_ much.”

Pogo says Dad cares.

He says he loves them, loves her.

He never says anything when Dad yells, when he sends them to bed without dinner, when he’s hit them for a reason or another.

“Dad’s mean sometimes,” she mumbles.

The woman’s smile widens, “I’d _never_ lock you away like this, sweetheart. Your Dad’s a very, _very_ bad person.”

Maybe he is, Seven concedes. Just maybe.

“Now imagine,” the woman starts, pensive, rehearsed, “Imagine what your life would be like if your Dad never did any of these- _mean_ things ever again, if he just wasn’t there.”

Seven looks up.

_What do you mean_ , she doesn’t ask, but the woman hears all the same.

“Imagine if it was just you and me, sweetheart,” then, slow, slow, slow, “Away from you Dad.”

Seven flinches away, nearly falls off the cot. “No,” she says, urgently.

“No?” the woman echoes, incredulous, “And here I thought you didn’t like being caged!”

“I- I don’t,” Seven hisses, huffing out.

“So? What’s the problem, then?”

_What’s the problem?_

What _isn’t_ the problem?

“I- I want Pogo,” Seven says, frailly. “I’m gonna get Pogo.”

And she tries to stand up, but-

The woman grabs her, grabs her wrist, so tight it feels like the bone might snap. “I can’t let you do that, sweetheart.” she says, and-

Seven-

She searches for her powers and _pushes_ her away-

She goes flying.

It’s almost like the pieces of glass, shattering against the wall.

The man startles, runs over to the woman to make sure she’s okay. And she is- probably, Seven’s stricken enough nannies to know when they’re okay.

Seven doesn’t even think about it.

She _runs._

She runs and she runs, and she locks herself in the elevator and when she gets to the top floor then she keeps _running_ , fearfully, clumsily. Then she’s nearing the bedrooms and-

And Six’s is closer.

Dad keeps him a couple doors over from anyone else in case the creatures come out while he’s asleep and end up accidentally hurting someone.

Six’s door is closer, and Seven all but throws herself at it, opening and closing it at the speed of light, fumbling, ungraceful.

Six’s awake in an instant. “Seven?”

“Shhh,” she hisses, and she runs towards him and climbs into bed with him, clings to his arm like she’s never clung to anything before. “Shut up, they’re gonna hear you.”

“What-? Who?” Six blurts, worried and confused, and Seven wants to explain, but-

But they’re gonna hear.

They’re gonna hear.

Although-

She gets the feeling it doesn’t really matter. That woman is going to find her, either way, she’s always going to find her.

“Seven, where were you?” Six asks, urgently, and at least he’s whispering now. “Dad said you were sick.”

Seven looks at him. “I wasn’t sick.”

And Six wants to ask more, she knows, but-

But then she hears that clicking, heels, advancing towards them one step at a time.

The sound’s not comforting in the slightest anymore.

The doorknob twists.

Their doors don’t have locks. Dad’s do. Theirs don’t.

The door opens.

The woman’s there. The man, too.

He’s got a gun out, trained at the both of them.

The woman’s breathing heavy. Her hair looks disheveled, now. “That wasn’t very nice of you, sweetheart,” she says, forcefully, “I bruise easy, y’know?” a sigh, “And if _this_ is damaged-” she gives the briefcase a little jostle. “I’m gonna have to fill out _so_ much paperwork.”

But then-

Then she seems to zero in on Six and her whole demeanor changes.

She gasps, opens her eyes wide. “Well, _shiver me timbers_ ,” she singsongs, and then, nonsensically, “If it isn’t Ben Hargreeves!”

Six locks his eyes with hers briefly, goes back to staring at the strangers warily.

“Oh, you’re _adorable_ , too!” the woman whines, biting her lip. She whips her head towards the man, searching for approval. “Isn’t he _adorable_?”

The man nods. “Very,” he says, solemnly, and he goes to put the gun down, but-

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” the woman hisses, so angry it’s scary. “That one’s dangerous too, don’t be an idiot.”

He holds the gun back up.

Seven buries her head on Six’s shoulder, just because-

She’s scared, she’s scared, and she doesn’t know what’s going on, and she wants Pogo, and she wants Grace, and she wants these people to be _gone_.

The woman sighs, mutters something about incompetence and new hires.

The man coughs awkwardly, looks them up and down. Then- “Ma’am, this seems a little- _excessive_. Are you sure the board approved this?”

And _oh_ , that angers her.

“We wouldn’t be out here if the board hadn’t approved it, now, would we?” she barks, her eyes cold, empty. “You should know that _I_ , of _all_ people, wouldn’t be making any unauthorized trips. I’m the Handler, after all.”

“Of course, ma’am,” the man mutters, clearly uncomfortable.

_The Handler._

Seven wonder what that means.

She also gets a feeling, unshakable, that whatever the hell the _board_ is, they- they didn’t approve of this, they don’t know their Handler is here, in this room, with them, they don’t know what she wants to do with them, whatever that may be.

The Handler sighs, again, theatrically.

She watches them closely, a twinkle in her eye.

“Y’know,” she starts, conversationally, “Ben Hargreeves doesn’t actually _do_ much, in life. And in death- _well_ ,” an amused snort, “He’s a glorified babysitter.”

The man doesn’t reply.

Seven doesn’t, either, nor Six for that matter.

The Handler tilts her head, and Seven can see she’s measuring, calculating, wondering if perhaps, _perhaps_ , perhaps she could- “Would it be overkill if I took him, too? He’s just _too_ adorable to pass up.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t the bomb enough?”

The Handler hums, waves a hand around. “As long as the timeline is concerned I could leave these two right here and things would turn out exactly like they’re supposed to turn out. But-“ and she smiles, feral, “I’ve always been a sentimentalist at heart. I just _need_ to hold on to the bomb until her time comes. I collect things, y’know? From my travels. She’ll be a great addition.”

“And the other kid?”

“Well,” a click of the tongue, “His powers _are_ pretty useful. And besides, if the bomb has something she holds dear then it’ll be easier to set her off in 2019.”

The words hang heavy.

Seven hasn’t got the slightest clue what’s going on.

Then the Handler smiles, all teeth.

The sight is _terrifying._

“It’s settled then!” she chirps, happily, “You’re both coming with me!”

And she hurls herself at them both, Six and Seven, and suddenly they’re gone.

Blue light engulfs them.

*

Seven wonders, for a second, if maybe Five woke up, heard something, decided to jump into Six’s room to investigate. But-

His jumps are that blue, and that disruptive, but they’re definitely not that big and loud, nauseating. He’s only jumped her from one place to another once, and she felt a little dizzy and lightheaded, and she made him promise he wasn’t going to do it ever again. He said it was fine, said he felt dizzy and lightheaded, too, said he wouldn’t do it again.

The Handler does something and suddenly everything’s blue.

Seven feels every inch of her body shifting and compressing, twisting itself in ways it just shouldn’t.

It’s not one of Five’s jumps.

It’s something else.

Seven snaps her eyes shut, still clinging to Six for dear life, Six clinging to _her_ for dear life, and when she opens them back up-

They’re not in Six’s room.

They’re somewhere else. It’s not nighttime anymore.

The room they’re in is- _spacious_ , still somehow cramped. It’s an office, like Dad’s, full of books and trinkets and display cases, a giant desk and random chairs scattered around.

The Handler’s right there, next to them. The man, too.

The man clears his throat awkwardly, finally puts the gun away. “Will that be all, ma’am?”

“Oh, of course!” the Handler says, and she starts shooing him away, guiding him towards the biggest wooden doors. “Thank you for your help, it was very much appreciated!”

A nod.

The Handler keeps talking. “And don’t you worry your pretty little head about paperwork, I’ll be filling it up this one time.”

The man hesitates.

Seven gets the impression what the Handler is offering to do isn’t all that common. She’s hiding something, probably, and that something has _got_ to be them.

But-

The man nods, again, after a moment, shoots her and Six one last look, mildly worried, and then he’s gone, muttering his goodbyes and leaving.

The Handler stands by the door, her hands at her waist, a second too long.

Seven doesn’t dare make a single noise.

She can feel Six by her side, and he’s shaking, whimpering softly. He cries easy. Dad always punishes him if he’s too loud about it.

The Handler turns to face them.

Seven thinks-

She thinks she’s going to have nightmares, featuring that smile, those red lips.

“Well,” the Handler blurts. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

It was very much _not_ fun.

They don’t reply.

The Handler doesn’t seem to mind, and there’s a spring to her step when she circles around them to put the briefcase on top of the desk. She seems happy, now that she has them exactly where she wants them. “Oh,” she suddenly says, tilting her head, “We better get the introductions over with, right?”

Again, no reply.

But the Handler walks up to them, places a hand over her shoulder and starts tugging her away.

Seven goes, tripping over her own feet.

Six follows.

His hand finds hers and they hold on to each other.

The Handler reaches another door in the office, a smaller one, this time, and when she swings it open they’re suddenly in some sort of sitting room, bookcases and archived papers all around them. Right in the middle of the room, in a couch that seems to swallows her whole, there’s-

There’s a kid.

Another kid, around their age, probably, dark eyes, and dark skin, and she’s hugging her knees to her chest but the second she sees them she scrambles to stand up, to shoot the Handler a questioning look, uncomfortable, tense.

The Handler smiles, “Lila, honey,” she starts, “I want you to meet your new brother and sister!”

We have brothers and a sister already, Seven doesn’t say.

And this- _Lila_ is definitely not one of them, Seven doesn’t say.

Lila does. “I don’t have siblings,” she mutters, a frown on her face.

She’s got a funny accent, like Dad’s.

“Well, you do now,” the Handler says, easy as that, “And look!” she gestures vaguely towards them, “Aren’t they the _cutest_?”

Lila looks at them.

She seems- _scared_.

Resigned.

Docile, because she has to be.

“Go on,” the Handler ushers, “Say hello.”

And Lila says hello, “Hi,” she mutters, softly, waving a hand, “What’s your name?”

A soft whimper from her side, “Six,”

And she almost whimpers too, sighs, “Seven,”

The Handler-

The Handler goes rigid, goes _mad_ , “Oh, _no, no, no_ ,” she chastises, “None of that _Six_ and _Seven_ bull, I just can’t stand it,” and she shoots her an annoyed look, “I wasn’t lying when I said your daddy is a _pig_ , did you know that?” then she goes back to almost muttering to herself, “ _Six and Seven-!_ Where’s the glamour in that?”

Seven shares a confused little glance with Six, then with Lila, too, because why the hell not?

Those are their names, and they’re _numbers_ , but those are their _names_.

“How about this-?” the Handler finally says, and she squats in front of them so she can see them in the eye. “How about- _Ben_ and _Vanya_ -?”

She pokes each of their noses in time with the names.

And-

Seven doesn’t really see why they’d _need_ new names, but-

She shrugs, looks down, holds on tighter to Six’s hand.

“Great,” the Handler says, and she spares Lila a look, too, “We’re gonna have _so_ much fun together, just you wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> Am I going to do a S1 rewrite but with this scenario? 👀 HELL YEAH. When, you ask? Idk, someday. 
> 
> follow me on tumblr @myeyesarenotblue


End file.
